The Drunken Thief
by writerfan2013
Summary: Joan arrives back to some shocking news. But the situation can't be what it seems. She's sure of it. (Updated to fix some awful formatting not visible when doing this on my phone...)


"It's perfectly clear, Ms Watson." The police officer ran the tape again. "That is your client, stealing a large bottle of booze from the corner store and fleeing the scene of his crime. I'm sorry, but it looks like he's fallen off the wagon so hard he's turned to crime to fuel his addiction."

Joan pressed her lips together. "I don't believe it," she said. "I saw him yesterday evening. He was fine. He took a swab test without a flicker. He swore to me that he's given up alcohol and drugs. And I believe him."

The cop shook his head. "You went out of town last night, you say?" His pen was out, poised over his notebook, ready to capture her damning words.

"Yes... A family emergency. I had to go. It's fine now," she added, as if he cared. "Can I see Sherlock?" she asked.

The cop shook his head. "He's being processed, then it's the drunk tank, and you don't want to see him in there, believe me."

"I'm an addiction and recovery specialist," she said sharply. "I can handle it."

The cop's raised eyebrows questioned her expertise. But all he said as his face shut down was, "Next of kin only."

An absentee sober companion? Not even close.

Joan stood outside the precinct wondering what to do next. The tape was clear -Sherlock, in a dark high neck jersey, coat collar pulled up to his ears, ducking between the shelves of the liquor store and approaching the counter. He was twitchy, impatient - or nervous. He grabbed two bottles of beer, his gaze fixed on the guy in front of him, who'd paid and was hauling his purchase off the counter.

"What kind of off licence is this," he asked loudly, glancing up at the security camera. It was the only good look at his face on the whole tape. And he did not look drunk.

What happened next belied this though. He snuck up behind the customer finishing up at the till, and stood close behind him. He bumped into him -clearly on purpose, Joan had to agree with the cop - and the guy dropped his armful of bottles.

The customer and the store owner swore as the bottles - cheap cider or lager in plastic bottles - bounced on the floor.

Sherlock jumped in. "Let me help you," he said clearly, and then just as clearly stuffed one of the bottles into his coat pocket. "One must have rolled," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. "I'll fetch you another from the shelf."

"The hell you will," said the store owner, and the customer moved in on Sherlock. "I just saw you take it!"

"Hey!" The customer snatched at Sherlock, missed, and stumbled into a display of chips. Packets flew everywhere and crackled underfoot as the customer lunged at Sherlock and the owner hit the panic button.

Sherlock sprinted from the store, the bottle weighing down one side of his jacket, as the alarm began to ring.

Joan shook her head. Police had caught up with Sherlock in a nearby park, flaked out on a bench and dreaming up at the sky. Totally out of it, was the verdict. He did not resist arrest.

She sighed and headed for the subway, trying to figure out her next move. She had gotten so far with Sherlock. Zero lapses. Good behaviour in general - for him. And now this.

Her phone rang. She glanced at it, not relishing the thought of any further family drama, not today - but the caller ID said Holmes Sr.

Sherlock's father.

"Good morning," she said, trying to keep the dread from her voice. She listened. Then she said, "Yes. Of course," and very quietly shut the phone.

She walked down into the subway with her head bowed.

* * *

"Let me just ring her!"

The interviewing cop was unimpressed by Sherlock's table thumping and educated accent. "You had your call, pal. And your dad won't make bail. Not this time."

"You don't understand. She's my sober companion. I need to talk to her. About my relapse," he added pointedly. "She needs to swab me, test me for drugs."

"Some sober companion she is", observed the cop. "Where was she while you were climbing into the bottle?"

"She's a professional," Sherlock said stiffly. "Nothing she did influenced my actions last night."

The cop snorted. "Great. Then what's the point of her?" He chortled to himself.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Joan Watson is a hugely dedicated addiction specialist whose expertise I value - and I need to speak to her straight away!"

The phone on the wall rang and the cop answered it then sat back down opposite Sherlock. "Your lucky day," he said. "Captain Gregson wants you tested for the whole caboodle."

"At last! Gregson. Let me speak to him. It's urgent!"

The cop shook his head with a weary smile. These losers. It was always urgent. Funny how getting a job and kicking the habit never seemed quite so vital - until they wound up in jail again.

"Come on, buddy. Quick march to the medic's office. And don't expect them to be gentle cos you've got a hangover."

* * *

Joan packed her bag slowly. She had twenty four hours to vacate her room. A replacement sober companion was being sought now and should be here by the time Sherlock was released. Someone capable of remaining with my son and keeping him off the drink...had been the phrase. Someone able to actually fulfill the contract given to them.

Sherlock had tested positive for a startling cocktail of illegal substances.

It stung, but not as much as the idea that Sherlock had abandoned sobriety without so much as a hint that anything was wrong. Why had he not tried to confide in her?

Why had he given her no hint about the onset of this bizarre behaviour?

Unless... he had.

She put down the sweatshirt she was folding and stood still. Sherlock had known he was being taped. He had looked at the security camera. He had spoken as if for an audience all the way through.

She rapidly replayed it in her mind.

What kind of off licence is this?

An odd phrase, a Brit thing. Joan googled it from her phone. Off licence - retailer with permission to sell alcohol for consumption off the premises.

Sherlock knew that term wasn't used over here. And when he spoke, he spoke with intent. He was calling attention to the question.

What kind of liquor store is this?

Joan ran down to the den and grabbed the PC. She checked out the store...nothing strange, a Pakistani owner, full licence to trade, been there for years.

She didn't have Sherlock's hacking skills. But she could find the phone number for the dry cleaner and florist over the road from the liquor store. They both told her the same thing: that like them, the small business had been struggling. Until lately, when a whole new clientele appeared out of nowhere and the liquor business appeared to be booming.

It used to be a nice neighbourhood, complained the florist. But these creeps are bringing it down. They were robbed last night, she added dramatically. Some wino just snatched the booze and ran. Broad daylight!

What kind of liquor store was it?

Joan pondered, her phone idle beside her. Gregson had called but she couldn't bear to speak to him.

Why had Sherlock stolen from that store? And let himself be filmed doing it?

He had stolen a bottle from a man who had just purchased it. He had tried to replace it with a bottle from the shelves, and the guy had got very angry. So had the owner.

Why not just buy booze if he had fallen off the wagon?

Something was wrong. She still, despite the evidence, had faith in Sherlock and his journey away from addiction.

It was no good. She had to find out if there was more to this. She couldn't just walk away.

She took a stroll - to the park bench where they had arrested Sherlock.

He had stolen a bottle of low rent booze - but been arrested high as a kite less than quarter of an hour later.

He was stone cold sober in the liquor store, she was sure of it.

She hunted around the benches in the small, shabby park. Bingo!

In her hand was the plastic bottle Sherlock had stolen. She sniffed it and recoiled. She dialled the number of her favourite rehab clinic. "Janine? Can you spare me a little time? I need a favour from your lab."

* * *

"Thank you, Watson. I knew either you or Captain Gregson would realise there was something odd about the liquor store."

Sherlock was out, free, and he and Joan were strolling home in the silvery evening light.

"It was a front," Joan said. "They had 'special customers' who got their booze from under the counter... But it wasn't booze."

"Not even bootleg," agreed Sherlock. "But a dangerous form of liquid cocaine in a readily absorbed solution. Used for all sorts - from straight drug abuse to date rape. Very unpleasant and now, thanks to my expose of the supply method, in somewhat shorter supply."

"I knew you hadn't lapsed," she said.

Sherlock looked askance at her.

Joan rolled her eyes. "Ok. I was ninety nine percent certain. "

He smirked. "And I was ninety nine percent certain that you'd know it was all a ruse."

She frowned as they crossed the street. "But why didn't you just tell Gregson what you suspected? Or simply buy a bottle and send it for testing?"

"I'm not one if their favoured clientele. The owner would never have given me the dodgy stuff. And besides, that wouldn't have been so interesting, would it?"

That stopped her dead. She gripped his arm, forcing him to a halt on the kerb beside her. "Interesting?" she said, and shook him. "Tell me," she said. "Tell me you didn't do it to get high one more time."

He stared at her in amazement. "Watson, I'm sober. You know that."

"Not last night, you weren't."

"That was just to get tested. I thought you'd be home. I thought you'd swab me the moment you saw me."

She sighed and let go of him. "I'm sorry. I had to go out of town. I should have been there for you."

He sighed too. "And, I suppose, I could have let you in on the plan."

They walked on.

"I'm not leaving your side until you're clean," Joan said.

"And I will try to appraise you of anything which needs a drugs test as part of the plan." He grinned at her.

"You can do better than that." She held out her phone to him. "You can call your father and get me my job back."

He grimaced. Then looked at her, nodded briefly, and held out his hand for the phone.

* * *

Author's note: resubmitted as the formatting had been totally messed up by my phone. Bit more readable now I hope.


End file.
